


Wind Down

by Neyiea



Category: Glanni Glæpur í Latabæ, LazyTown
Genre: Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Frottage, I think this is pretty tame but what do I know, Ice Play, M/M, Sub Íþróttaálfurinn, Temperature Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 13:28:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10104173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyiea/pseuds/Neyiea
Summary: It can feel so good, to give control over to someone else.





	

**Author's Note:**

> You know, I'm pretty sure this is the first time I've written this sort of relationship dynamic. Anyways this has been kicking around in my documents folder for a while now, the main reason why I'm posting it at all is cause I haven't posted anything else in what feels like so long and my desire to write other stuff is probably going to continue to be super-low until I get my exam results back (I stg if I don't get a letter _this week_ -)SO JUST TAKE THIS AND RUN.

Being a hero is immensely satisfying, but it can also be very draining. Looking out for people constantly, trying to ensure that the lessons you taught were actually adhered to, always having to be in complete control of every situation.

Íþróttaálfurinn wouldn’t give it up for the world, of course. But sometimes.

Sometimes…

He just wants to let go, wants to take direction instead of leading. Wants a break from having to maintain perfect command and constant control. Wants to hand off the sometimes-burden of authority and leadership to someone else for a while.

Sometimes he just needs a brief respite from being the person who everyone counts on.

Which is how he finds himself here. Kneeling beside Glanni’s legs as the other man sits in a chair, one cheek resting on a thigh as Glanni cards his long fingers through Íþróttaálfurinn’s hair.

This is what they usually do in order for him to begin winding down, and there’s something comforting in the way Glanni’s nails lightly scratch at his scalp, something grounding about the slight force behind it. Every so often Glanni lightly tugs at his hair; at first Íþróttaálfurinn is too tense to go along with the movement without resistance but soon his head lulls in whichever direction he is pulled in, his eyelashes fluttering at the sensation. 

Glanni speaks to him and the normal tone of his voice, nothing out of the ordinary, is soothing.

“What do you need from me tonight?”

Íþróttaálfurinn thinks about the nights where he needs to be tied; needs yards of rope knotted around his body leaving him almost completely immobile. Nights where he only wants to focus on the warm sting of wax dripping against his shoulders and chest. Nights where he needs to be blindfolded and fucked to the point where he’s so over-stimulated that it’s the only thing his mind can focus on.

Nights where he needs to stay exactly as he is now, with a hand running through his hair, until he ends up falling asleep with his face pillowed against Glanni’s thigh and wakes up in the morning with Glanni curled around him in a way that almost reads as protective. 

Glanni tugs on his hair, a little more harshly than before.

“You haven’t answered me.”

Íþróttaálfurinn licks his lips and opens his mouth to speak.

“I need to be immobile. Not everything, just my arms.”

Glanni hums softly. His hand starts running down the back of Íþróttaálfurinn’s neck with each sweep, drifting further down each time.

“What else?”

“Sensory stimulation. Cold.”

Glanni shifts, his nails drifting across Íþróttaálfurinn’s shoulder. 

“Your safeword is?”

“Red.”

“And if you can’t talk?”

“Index and pointer fingers extended with other fingers in flexion.” 

“Good.”

Glanni’s tone takes on an assertive quality that makes Íþróttaálfurinn want to hold himself taller, to prepare for whatever Glanni asks of him.

“Stand.”

He does without question.

“Take off your shirt and pants. Keep your underwear on.”

He strips out of the layers, fabric pooling around his ankles.

His eyes are half open and he watches languidly as Glanni takes a coil of rope and drapes the middle around his neck. Glanni briefly takes Íþróttaálfurinn’s face in his hands, one thumb brushing against Íþróttaálfurinn’s lips, before he steps behind him.

Glanni brings the rope underneath his arms and crosses it, then pulls it to Íþróttaálfurinn’s front again, feeding it between his legs and hooking it into the bottoms of the X tracing across his back. His hands work quickly as he makes loops in the rope, and then he sticks two fingers between Íþróttaálfurinn’s body and the work he has so far, ensuring that he’s not tying him too tight. 

“Cross your arms behind you, wrists overlapping.”

Íþróttaálfurinn follows the command. 

It feels good, to give control over to someone else.

Rope is looped around his wrists and cinched tight. Glanni’s fingers come back, slipping between rope and skin to gauge the amount of slack before feeding the rope up from underneath his arms, along his back, and hooking it into the cord at the back of Íþróttaálfurinn’s neck. Glanni crosses the ends of lose rope behind its own upward trail on Íþróttaálfurinn’s back, then ties it off. 

“Show me,” he says, and Íþróttaálfurinn doesn’t even have to ask what.

He extends his index and pointer fingers while keeping his other fingers curled, then lets his hand rest back in a neutral position. 

“Good,” Glanni says again, and something warm curls in Íþróttaálfurinn’s gut.

“Kneel.”

He does, knees somewhat cushioned by his discarded clothing.

“Stay still,” Glanni orders, and then walks out of the room.

Íþróttaálfurinn shuts his eyes, breathes, stays perfectly still.

His mind is almost completely quiet, focused only on what Glanni orders of him, and it’s enough to make him feel more at ease than he has felt in days. He could fall asleep like this, kneeling here and waiting for Glanni to return to him, calm in a way that he’d never been able to reach before he learned the bliss of handing over the reins to someone else.

He hears the clack of Glanni’s heels against the floor and his eyes flutter halfway open, serenely watching the man’s legs come closer.

Glanni comes to stop in front of him, and he cards his hand through Íþróttaálfurinn’s hair before his fingers flit down his face, just barely skimming across his skin until he settles at Íþróttaálfurinn’s lips, his middle and index fingers gently pushing between.

Íþróttaálfurinn opens his mouth, and Glanni’s fingers dip inside to rest against his tongue. 

“Keep your mouth open for me, dear.” He withdraws his fingers and Íþróttaálfurinn’s lips remain parted.

Something cold slips partway between his teeth. Ice, he realizes almost immediately as it begins to thaw from his body heat. Cold drops of water crest over his lips and drip past his chin, slowly tracking down his neck and chest.

Glanni settles onto his own knees in front of him. “I don’t have much for cold. I’ll be more prepared the next time you ask for it.”

Next time, Íþróttaálfurinn inwardly chimes. Next time next time next time.

Glanni’s hands twist at an ice tray, the crack of it almost deafening in the otherwise silent room, and he pulls another cube out and starts tracing circles around Íþróttaálfurinn’s areola. 

The cold is an inescapable point of focus, something that Íþróttaálfurinn couldn’t ignore even if he tried, and goosebumps spread up his arms as any remaining background noise in his head goes silent while his attention shifts completely to his own body.

Íþróttaálfurinn shudders, nipples pebbling as Glanni slowly goes from one to the other, the circles getting tighter with each pass until the ice is pressing right against the peak. The ice in Íþróttaálfurinn’s mouth has turned into little more than a sliver, cool water now coating his chin and trickling down his abdomen, and when Glanni leans forward to blow air across his chest he can’t keep his jaw from clenching, the ice snapping under the pressure of his teeth.

“Mouth open,” Glanni reminds him, pulling back. He slips another cube halfway past Íþróttaálfurinn’s lips, and then his fingers trail through the damp streaks leading down his neck, chest, and abdomen. He skims a nail along the hem of Íþróttaálfurinn’s underwear idly before taking anther two cubes from the tray and moving closer, one knee slipping forward to be bracketed by Íþróttaálfurinn’s.

He draws the ice along the tips of Íþróttaálfurinn’s ears, blowing air against the points intermittently, and then he trails both cubes down his jaw and neck to press directly against his nipples while taking one of the tips of Íþróttaálfurinn’s ears in his mouth.

Íþróttaálfurinn’s eyes flutter. The heat of Glanni’s mouth a titillating contrast from the cold of the ice. His head sways to the side as Glanni begins to trails kisses down his neck and scrape his teeth against his shoulder. Glanni nuzzles against the hollow of his throat and the ice drags down Íþróttaálfurinn’s ribcage to mark wet patterns against his hips.

Glanni blows air across his nipples and Íþróttaálfurinn shudders again. Then Glanni leans in against one and bites.

Íþróttaálfurinn jerks, mouth falling wide open, arms straining suddenly against the rope. Any water that had been dripping inside of his mouth tips out, splashing against Glanni’s hair as he laves a tongue against the nipple he’d bitten.

After being under the ice for so long Glanni’s tongue feels almost fire-hot, and Íþróttaálfurinn finds himself squirming at the sensation.

Glanni’s eyes flick up, and he pulls away with a smile.

“You kept you mouth open for me.” He presses his fingers insider again. “Such a good boy, following directions. Suck.”

Íþróttaálfurinn closes his lips around Glanni’s fingers and does as he’s told.

Glanni’s other hand hooks into the front of his underwear, his thumb idly tracing circles in Íþróttaálfurinn’s pubic hair before withdrawing. Íþróttaálfurinn knows better than to whine at the loss of contact, so he lets his eyes fall shut and focuses on the feeling of Glanni’s fingers in his mouth, the way Glanni curls them ever so slightly against his tongue.

“So good for me,” Glanni whispers, and when his other hand comes back he presses ice against the firm skin under Íþróttaálfurinn’s belly button.

Íþróttaálfurinn jerks against the ropes again but settles quickly, focusing only on the heat of Glanni’s fingers in his mouth and the freezing ice melting against his skin and dripping down to soak the front of his underwear. The ice slips down down down and he shudders when Glanni presses it against his heated flesh.

Glanni’s fingers slip out of his mouth, heavily coated in saliva, and they slide down his chest to twist roughly at one of his nipples before tugging his underwear down as much as he can with the rope fed through his thighs in the way.

“Look at you. Gorgeous,” he says, rocking the ice against Íþróttaálfurinn more firmly, until it’s all melted away and Íþróttaálfurinn’s underwear is soaking and cold.

Glanni moves closer still, his knee skimming further between Íþróttaálfurinn’s legs.

“Ride my thigh.”

Íþróttaálfurinn obediently settles his weight atop Glanni’s leg and grinds, hips bucking unsteadily as Glanni cradles his face in his hands and guides him into a wet, open-mouthed kiss. Íþróttaálfurinn pants against his lips, arousal burning hotly in his gut as he splays his legs wider, rutting as firmly as he is able to.

“That’s it, that’s good,” Glanni murmurs against his mouth, fingers trailing underneath lines of rope. “You’re doing so well. Go faster for me, dear.” He scrapes his teeth against Íþróttaálfurinn’s ear as he complies.

The cool of the water drenching his front has dissipated and all of his focus shifts to the ache building up between his legs. His breath hitches as he settles into a quick rhythm, arching down and dragging roughly against Glanni’s leg as Glanni skims nails down his back.

“Glanni,” the name falls past his lips, the first word he’s spoken in what feels like an eternity. 

Glanni growls low in his throat, hands coming to rest on Íþróttaálfurinn’s hips, making no move to guide his actions but settling there, heavy and possessive. 

“You’re doing so well, you’re almost there aren’t you? Right at the edge.” Glanni leans in to bite into the meat of Íþróttaálfurinn’s shoulder and Íþróttaálfurinn jerks at the sting of teeth, loosing the rhythm he’d set as his legs clamp hard around Glanni’s thigh and he rides out his orgasm, pleasure rushing over him in waves that leave him shaking.

Glanni’s hands slide up his back, resting against the rope around his wrists, and he makes wordless, pleased noises low in his throat.

He goes lax in Glanni’s arms, mind happily blank, and he can feel the tension in each of his muscles drain away. He presses his face into Glanni’s neck and sighs, allowing himself to go totally, wonderfully slack.

“That’s it, let go completely,” Glanni praises him, pressing a kiss to his loose curls. “My good boy, so relaxed for me. You’ve made me very happy.” Glanni wraps his arms around Íþróttaálfurinn’s shoulders, unconcerned by the damp fabric of his pant leg. His fingers find the ends of the rope and he begins the process of untying, praises falling from his lips all the while until Íþróttaálfurinn’s arms are free to come and rest at his sides. “Let’s have a bath and get cleaned up.”

Íþróttaálfurinn nods mutely, content to follow Glanni’s lead.

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, listen. Sometimes Íþróttaálfurinn just needs a break from making decisions, and sometime Glanni just needs someone who will listen to him and do as he says.


End file.
